


A Place of Warmth

by chibistarlyte



Series: The Awesome Things prompt series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blankets, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Sleep, and Sherlock helps out in a slightly un-Sherlockian way, tired John is tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a grueling case, John conks out on the sofa. Sherlock covers him with a blanket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place of Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Dumb fic is dumb but whatever, it's been sitting unfinished in my notebook so I needed to finish it. Unbeta'd and not Brit-picked.
> 
> Prompt: when you're really tired and about to fall asleep and someone throws a blanket on you
> 
> Enjoy!

John could barely remember his trip from the door to the sofa. After he spent a good minute or two willing himself to actually hang up his coat and toe off his shoes, his feet sluggishly propelled him forward until he was lying stomach-down on the worn cushions. Distantly, he had the thought of making some tea, but his body told him otherwise. Finally, finally, they’d solved the case that had kept them going for nearly 72 hours straight. John hadn’t even caught more than two winks of sleep while Sherlock dove excitedly into the waters of the locked-door murder Lestrade presented them with. Turned out it was the family physician. Fatal dose of medication during a house call or something of the sort. John was too tired to care at this point; he just wanted to sleep.  

Oh, and how quickly he was heading there. His senses already began to blur with the fog of exhaustion, the adrenaline that had been keeping him going for so long draining out of him like helium through a hole in a balloon. He could feel himself deflating on the sofa with every exhaled breath, sinking further and further into comforting blackness. Whatever fleeting thoughts he had became even more disjointed, incoherent, mere wisps of vapor that vanished as quickly as they materialized.  

"John?"  

Something resembling a grunt erupted from John’s throat in response to Sherlock calling his name. He was beyond the point of speaking now, his tongue thick and useless in his mouth. Though his lips did quirk a bit when he felt long, gentle fingers threading through his short locks. As if he weren’t already well on his way to dream land, that motion alone was enough to lull him into slumber.  

And then there was a weight on him, heavy and warm and soft and snug. It engulfed him, swallowed him whole and he drifted off, sleep finally claiming him.  

When John woke hours later, it was just past seven in the morning. He was reluctant to get up, so he stayed curled up and slightly dazed until alertness crept back into his senses and his body began responding to his brain again. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but he definitely needed the rest and he was already feeling better for it. Extending his arms far above his head, John stretched out his sore and tired muscles with a pleased groan. He even felt his back pop a little bit, which was glorious. Finally, he was ready to get up and make some breakfast. He threw off his blanket and—  

Wait, blanket?  

John stared down at the giant rectangle of fabric that usually resided on the back of his armchair. Funny. He didn’t remember falling asleep with the blanket on. Though to be honest, he hardly remembered making it into the flat last night with how knackered he was. For all he knew, he could have just grabbed the blanket and flopped down on the sofa for some long-needed sleep.  

Or, it could have been—most likely was—Sherlock’s doing.  

Sherlock, who was currently dead asleep in his own armchair, long limbs folded and bent and contorted every which way in positions that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Yet he slept on undisturbed, with only his pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown to keep him warm.  

A fond sort of smile played across John’s lips. He stood up from the sofa, blanket in hand, and padded over to his sleeping flatmate. Giving it a good shake to spread it out, John draped the blanket over Sherlock’s sleeping form and tucked in the edges. He even dared to ruffle those wild curls just a bit. Sherlock didn’t even stir.  

After a few moments of just watching Sherlock sleep, John headed into the kitchen. He really needed some tea.


End file.
